The Churchyard

I find these places of worship magnificently austere,

Ornate steeple and stained glass, arched windows,

Hard wooden pews in neat little rows,

Hymn books stacked in neat little piles,

They fascinate me.


Yesterday’s scriptures billow through cold stones walls,

I stand amid a congregation, mostly old folk,

Perhaps being a certain age, sparks,

That one last grasp at hope,

That there is a God and he is merciful.


Were it not for a childhood of fear inspiring chitchat,

I may have felt more comfortable in this quaint setting but,

My spine tingles at the very thought,

Of praying for forgiveness.


This begging game,

Has long since ceased to impress,

If I were the Lord on high,

I’d have grown weary too.


I feel uneasy among these guilt-ridden souls,

Sinners awaiting their saviour.


-Forgiveness flips me the bird,

The finger of blame points forever, inward.


I head for the doors and out,

Into the churchyard,

To the peaceful end of life.


Old tombstones creeping with ivy,

Stretch far and wide across this field of death,

Mother nature reclaims her own,

The pathways are overgrown.


Nettles and impossibly tall wildflowers,

Dominate the dry earth,

Tall grass hides the oldest headstones from view,

I stand among the forgotten.


Forgotten names, time-worn,

Eroded remembrances, for tired old bones,

I ask them; is there a God and is he merciful?


Silence; endless silence,

If they whispered a word,

It’s not for the living to hear it.


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